


Adios, Madrid

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Transfer Window
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:30:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The transfer window is open, and Xabi has a decision to make about his future with Real Madrid. He reaches out to Steven to ask for his opinion, and gets more than what he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adios, Madrid

**Author's Note:**

> Xabi Alonso's moves in the transfer window caught one off guard. In the space of forty eight hours Alonso did this: made his announcement that he'd be retiring from international football, accepted Pep Guardiola's offer to play with Bayern Munich, had a press conference explaining why he decided to leave Real Madrid, and played for Bayern Munich the next day. Wow. Boss. 
> 
> This story takes place a week before that.

The jaunty ringtone ripped through his sleep like a possessed buzzsaw. 

Stevie dragged the bed clothes over his head, and wiggled in deeper, willing the phone to stop ringing. It continued, the theme from _64 Zoo Lane_ getting louder and louder with each ring; the phone vibrating faster, and faster, flailing against the surface of the desk as if throwing a tantrum. 

On a huff and a groan, he stuck his hand out from the fortress of the covers, grabbed at the phone, half awake and fumbling, thumbed it to speaker phone. 

“Oi, it’s me bleeding rest day, this better be good!” he half growled, more as a warning to the person on the other line than anyone else in the vicinity. Alex, bless her, would have bundled the girls and herself out of the house by now, leaving him to drift into consciousness by phases. 

“Stevie,” the familiar notes shocked him awake, as if someone doused him into the Merseyside at the crack of dawn. 

“Xabi?” he sat up in bed now, all cobwebs completely gone. “This is-” he started, because it’s not as if they talked on the phone so much anymore. Texts, and the odd whatsapp, sure. But life pretty much charged on, with back to back games on different teams and in different leagues, their spouses, children... Different lives in now in separate orbits. Their communication limited to comments on Instagram and likes via retweets and hearts on webpages, and texts on the trot. Written in shorthand of numbers and underscored with emoticons.

“Yes,” Xabi said, his voice sounding tinny over the phone speaker. “I need to speak with you.”

“I’m free,” Stevie rubbed at his hair, reached down to adjust his skivvies under the covers. _Ah, that's better_. “How are you? Sound?"

“No, I’m sorry if I’m unclear. I know it’s your rest day, and such days are important, but can you fly to Madrid today?”

“You wot?” Stevie half laughed, because just, no. He still had aches and pains from the night before and the night before the night before. Besides, if Brendan ever found out he went on a jolly in the midst of the season he’d kill him- and leaving the country mid campaign constituted a jolly- of that he was sure. Thousands of excuses crowded in his mouth, ready to jump from his tongue. 

“Stevie, I- please.” Those three words changed everything. Cursing himself for a fool, knowing he couldn’t say no, but not wanting to capitulate too easily, he asked, “What time can you buy me a ticket and car parking?”

***

Madrid greeted Stevie as imperious as ever: the Spanish city imposed with its wide streets, castles and municipal buildings whipped up out of story books, the sweep of the imposing public spaces adding awe and space. The Cibeles, deserted on this hot day still drew his eye, the fountains sprouting and silver in the sky, the lion statues on the prowl, the named goddess of the plaza regal with hauteur in the pulled carriage. Postcard beautiful and pristine by day, but Stevie knew from pictures that on certain evenings, the plaza would be heaving with _Madridistas_ , their faces upturned, their hands stretched up and towards the heavens, searching for a glimpse of whatever trophy awaited them this time, delivered to them by the kings of the Bernabéu court, festooned with ribbons and stamps, the air raining with confetti. Xabi drove on, skillfully skirting traffic, all lights lit green as they drove through and outwards of the city.

Save for the low, sultry twang of Spanish guitar coming from the radio, the interior of the car had the hush that you expected from a flash car that cost eighty thousand euro. Or in an old church in a village somewhere. The outside distant with the landmarks whizzing by in a blur. Inside, air con and that new car leather smell, with aluminium and walnut inlay on the dash. Leather seats that cushioned and formed around his back and thighs like a hug. 

Sometimes, it awed Stevie how Xabi adapted to the flash of Real Madrid. He’d left Liverpool as a quiet, relatively low key bloke. One who liked his clothes, sure, but his time at Real brought out and groomed his inner clothes horse, wrapped him in clothing campaigns. Stevie gave him a look from the corner of his eye as he considered how sleek; Xabi’s profile sharp against the window, his new haircut styled so that it never looked mussed, even when he was into his one hundredth minute on the field. His eyes now hidden behind Raybans and his beard filled in, and even. 

“Even your beard is flash,” he said aloud, “it doesn’t look like mould.” 

Xabi laughed at this, shaking his head as he shifted to a higher gear. 

"It's just Madrid, it’s a stylish city. It makes you want to try, and rewards you for doing so." This said with the carelessness of someone who belonged anywhere he slotted himself and made do nicely, thank you very much. 

"You know what I mean," Stevie laughed, "at Liverpool, you got stuck in, all quality. One of the boys, and your hair was just... your hair. Then you get called to Real and no performance issues, all silverware and got flash along the way."

Xabi said nothing, the muted tick tock of the indicator giving notice that he was coming off the highway, and he swung off the highway onto a scrub of a side road, parking by a sharp ledge. The usual outcropping on this side of the world; a narrow wall too low for health and safety to be comforting, falling away into steepness and rubble, Madrid sprawled beneath them, far enough to look almost toy like. The landmarks stood out, even from this distance. The Municipal palace, the ruler straight Grand Via, Casa de Campo... just like they said in the in flight magazine. Xabi killed the engine, the chill of the air in the car immediately warmer, the quiet purr of the engine given way to stillness, with the intermittent noise of the odd motor car zooming by. 

"Nice view." 

"It is. I come up here when I need to get some air. Sometimes, Madrid can feel too small."

"It's the biggest club in the world, mate. The city isn't that small either. I think the Merseyside could fit into its armpit."

Xabi lowered his ray bans with his index finger, peering at Stevie over the frames of his shades. Stevie leaned back in his seat, and returned his stare. They exchanged a look long enough for Stevie to see the feathered lines at the corner of Xabi’s brown eyes, and the peeling at the tip of his nose that told of sunburn. Stevie flicked his finger, a butterfly brush at the end of Xabi’s nose. For a split second, Xabi’s face froze in a neutral mask, before he rolled his eyes and grinned, smile scything through his ginger tinted beard, the emotion as bright as the day outside. For a brief minute, it might have been six years ago taking the piss out of each other at training practice, and Stevie could only swallow the lump in his throat.

“Sunburn,” Stevie pointed out the condition of his nose unnecessarily. “Will it ruin your photo shoots?”

“Ha,” Xabi pushed his shades up off his face into his hair, his face defaulting into the lines that stared out from magazines and ad campaigns. That faint half smile which showed polite interest, his stare direct and cool. Stevie faced him as best as he could, with seat belt on, and his head pressed against the headrest. He raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head, a tacit question of _all right?_

"I'm leaving the selección, and there’s beer in the boot. Do you want some?" Xabi announced, then in a smooth move, unlocked his car seat and his door at the same time, leaving Stevie in his seat to gape.

Well, Xabi was always the first to leave a conversation. With a shrug of his shoulders, Stevie also unfastened his seat belt and opened the door, the heated air rolling into his chest like a punch. Funny how an hour in a flash car made you forget everything about the heat. Xabi's cologne, a light fragrance of fresh oranges with a bit of green and sea that lightly scented the air didn't hurt, either. He followed suit, scrambling out of the car, the sun on his legs, because one might as well wear some shorts and get some sun if you were committed to an illegal jolly, and risk a bollocking by the gaffer, or something.

 

"You know when it's time," Stevie said, his breathing shallow, but it never hitched anymore. It still hurt, the campaign, coming up with nothing but sod all for his efforts. But he’d grieved, away from his wife and children, not wanting to bring the failure home, and then put it away, for the good of his team, and the Champions League.

"It's time," Xabi propped his hip against the bonnet of his car for support, and gestured to Stevie to sit too, his feet resting on the car's bumper. They looked out and beyond, as Stevie grappled with what to say, before looking at Xabi again. 

"What do you want from me?” Stevie finally asked, his voice hoarse, on this side of a tremor. “To give you my blessing to retire? When it's come to the matter of your career, you've never needed me advice, mate. You just did it, and better than me, I might add."

"The world changed when we weren't looking, Spain. We didn't see that there was an answer to our style of football, until it was too late. Or, we were just too -" a wave of Xabi’s hand, the sun catching the glint on the curve of his watch face. 

"Too?" Steve prompted, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, and the late afternoon sun less a scorch and more of a warm glow. 

"Too insular. Too _club_. La decimá-"

"Congratulations by the way. I wanted to tell you on that night but, erm-” Stevie raised one shoulder, and smiled to soften the blow. “It’s a night for teammates.”

"I felt like a Madridista that night,” Xabi said, still staring ahead. “Although it wasn’t - I wasn't on the field but..."

"You were in a sense. You helped to get them there, lad. They went and won it for you. You helped to get them there. Xabi-” Stevie reached over and pushed against him with his shoulder, rolled his body into it for a full jounce. “That’s what teams _do_.”

"Then the _Copa de Mundial_ ,” Xabi continued, as if it were a bleeding confessional, and probably it might have been. “It was like, you spent all day eating cake, yes, and then when this big cake comes, we didn't-" Xabi gave that half frustrated grunt and vague gesture of someone for whom the language spoken wasn't a first language.

"First class problems,” Stevie made his voice sharp, because there was a thin line between confession and showing off and Xabi was Irish step dancing on the edge. “You already won a World Cup, two Euros-”

Xabi laughed, a short, bitter bark. He ran his hands through his hair, so stylishly cut that every strand fell into place. He turned to Steve, his head that half tilt he did, his brow a furrow of confusion, as if he were trying to figure out Carra’s accent, or the first time he heard the honk of Scouse. 

"To think,” Xabi huffed, “I miss you."

Stevie looked out and beyond, watching the buses and specs that might have been people moving below them.

 _And yet, you won't come back_ , the words trembled on the tip of his tongue, but the subject was threadbare, and knowing it, he changed the topic.

"Yeah, that's not why you called me here, is it? Confessing to me as if I’m Father Ted or summat? I mean, I'm risking being skinned alive by the gaffer when I get back and-"

"I heard Guardiola wanted you for Bayern Munich last season."

"Jesus," Stevie scrubbed his hand along his jaw, feeling the bristle of stubble there. He’d been so focused on getting to Xabi and his news that he couldn’t say in person, that he’d skipped his shave, and ran out of the house with nowt but his passport and an overnight bag in hand. “Is nothing secret and sacred anymore?”

"It’s football,” Xabi fished out his iphone from his pocket, and inching up, he propped his feet on the bonnet of his sports car, and crossed his legs at the ankle. He framed the shot, the image of his moccasins in the foreground, and after a few tsks and mumbled curses, Stevie heard the snap of the camera. “The pond we swim in-? Pool,” he repeated, at Stevie’s absent nod. “The pool is small.”

Stevie shrugged, prepared to leave it at that, but talking about football tactics had always been a shared, passionate subject between them. Absently, he bit at the cuticle of his thumb, gathered his thoughts for a second and began. 

"You know about the problems Bayern’s having in midfield, and with the type of possession oriented football that Guardiola plays, I can see why he’d need another midfielder to tighten the defence and quicken the transition to attack. He’s trying to move from the tika taka play to - _tor_ , yeah? That means sod all if you don’t have an engine in the midfield. No matter how much you’re going to press your opposition, and go into their box, you still need someone who has an overview of tactics in the field, and before the defence and the goalie, yeah? To retrieve the balls and dictate, you always need someone to knit it all together, right. To do that with the injuries with Thiago, Martinez and Schweinsteiger, well... it’s a big ask, this season, I think. What with their domestic title needs and Champions League campaign, why-" and it dawned on him, a split second before Xabi confirmed his suspicions, placing his phone against his chest. 

"Bayern Munich called me around the same time.”

No surprise there, because Xabi, annoyingly, was right. It was a small pool, and Guardiola’s needs were pressing enough that necessitated someone with experience, while they tried to loop in other up and coming players into the system. Kroos, although promising, wasn’t there yet. Correction, Kroos wasn’t at Bayern Munich anymore. 

“Then- they called me two weeks ago.”

Stunned, Stevie could only laugh, somewhat tinged by disbelief, but it loosened the knot in his chest. "Guardiola?” The word exploded off his tongue like a half shout. “After Mourinho and all that drama - you'd work for a _cule_? After that kerfuffle with Mourinho? Aye, the Madridistas would _love_ that."

Xabi pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "I'd work for a good _club_. I’ll work under a good coach. Bayern Munich has both. They have a promising project-"

"And assured trophies."

A muscle twitched Xabi’s jaw, his eyes still shielded by Raybans. With his light coloured button down, beaten jeans and tanned boat shoes, he looked as if were in one of those poncy magazine cologne ads, with the expensive car to boot. “The English league doesn’t suit my style of playing.”

“It used to.”

“And now it does not.”

“I won’t ask you to come back,” restless and antsy, Stevie pushed himself off the bonnet of the car. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked towards the wall, looking down at Madrid, turning his back to Xabi. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

He heard Xabi walk off, the crunch of gravel under his feet, only for it to fade into the background, as Stevie sank deeper into his thoughts, his mood as leaden as the English skies he had left behind that morning. Only to flinch at something cold and wet to touch his shoulder, and he grabbed for it, realising it was beer in one of those fancy slimline bottles. “I’m in training,” he said. 

“That never stopped you from having a pint.”

Shrugging, because it beat arguing, Stevie accepted the beer. The day not too hot for the beer to be debilitating, just enjoyable, and hell, it was foreign. He took a swing, relishing the almost painful chill of it going down, flirting with brain freezes, half wishing there’d been a twist of lemon. 

“Why didn’t you say yes to Guardiola?”

“Because,” Stevie hissed, his eyes on the city below him, bottle of beer in hand. “I already have a club.”

“An under performing one.”

Half furious with hurt, Stevie whirled to face him, face hot and eyes burning, satisfaction mixed with shame when Xabi took a step back. “And who’s fault is that, _mine_?”

“I never said-”

“Unlike _you_ ,” Stevie’s, temper rose and crested to the fore, making him light headed with the heat of it, as he got in Xabi’s face. “I _stayed_. Despite your ‘unfinished business’ and the rest of it- you’re not coming back. You’re just a trophy hound, a- a mercenary glory hunter who... takes pictures of your feet on trophies. What the fuck’s _that_ about anyway? Why did you ask me here? Just to ask me about Guardiola? You’re thinking about leaving Real Madrid to work for their worst enemy? Didn’t you just say that you felt like a Madridista that night? I mean, doesn’t that count for something, isn’t that-?” he stopped in mid tirade, before going, “Fuck!” and kicked at nothing in particular. 

“I’m not like you, Stevie,” Xabi answered, between sips of beer in the reasonable tones Stevie _hated_ when they’d had arguments like this in the last days of Anfield. “Not everyone is a one club man. I- I love Liverpool, and Anfield. It’s a special club.”

“Like when you did that commercial, where you listened to la decimá and swore your allegiance to Real Madrid, blood bleeding white, kissing the badge and all of that. Saying that la decimá was _it_... Only for you to go to Bayern Munich?”

Xabi, damn him, didn’t even flinch. 

“I’m -- exploring my options,” he hedged, before taking another generous swig of beer.

“Xabi,” a shake of the head at this, before Stevie brought his hand up to his face and scrubbed at the grit in his eyes, the beer held by slack fingers in his other hand. “Don’t lie to me, mate. You’re already planning your exit press conference.You’ve picked out the suit, written your statement and everything.”

Xabi opened his mouth, closed it, before he gave that faint half smile he did for the cameras again. “I could never lie to you, Stevie.”

Stevie shook his head, his blast of temper had ebbed away, now leaving him empty. “You could,” he sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, the pressure causing his eyes to clear a little. “You have, but that’s what we’re about, right? Why am I here? So you can tell me that you aren’t coming back to Anfield? I know, you know,” and this time, the emotion spiked again, making his voice almost wobble and that might have been the beer. “I keep asking, not because I expect you to come _back_ but because there’s no other way I know of saying, ‘I miss you’, ‘I miss playing with you’. I know you think I’m a fool for staying, especially when I’ve had offers to go else where. Don’t you think at times, I don’t want to? That I haven’t been _tempted_? That I look at your achievements and then mine and not feel even the least -” he cut himself off, because to say it would be worse. He held up his hand at shoulder height, palm facing out. “Forget it.”

“Not everyone can be born into a great club, a big club,” Xabi pushed his shades from his eyes into his hair again, his eyes luminous. “If I’d stayed at Real Sociedad, I woudn’t have come to Liverpool, we wouldn’t have met. I wouldn’t have gone to Real Madrid. Probably if I came up in an academy with a club like you had for Liverpool, I might have been you. Or even, even well, Iker Casillas, where your club is your root and the pinnacle, and you only have to wind yourself around it to climb. But after la decimá what else is there? To do it again? The same Copa del Rey and Champions League with the sameness? Bayern Munich is a good club, a good step. I think I like this.”

“So why did you ask me here?”

“Because,” and at this, an odd look stole into Xabi’s eyes. “It’s nice to have a friendly face in Madrid, apart from family.”

“Xabi,” Stevie rubbed at his forehead, as if warding off a migraine. He could never understand how Xabi’s mind worked, at times. “The fans love you, you know that. You have a way of making people love you, and them wanting you to love them _back_ , and making them think- it could be possible. You charmed the Kop, and based on the magazine covers I’ve seen you on whenever I’m over here- the Bernabéu and the city are half gone on you too. You’ll do the Great Charm Offensive on Munich, because you can’t help yourself. You’ll speak German with a Spanish accent and have...I don’t know whatever the German magazines are, but they’ll be pledging their troth to you before mid season’s transfer window. But it’s a lie, you know,” Stevie finished, his voice getting softer and fainter as he pushed through his sentence, realisation shaping and sharpening his thoughts. “Because you can’t love anyone or anything with the ease you make people think you can. You never could, you never would, especially if it’s underachieving.”

Stevie stared at his beer, not wanting to see the look in Xabi’s eyes, but the sharp intake of breath behind him told him enough. 

“I guess,” Xabi finally said, voice as polite as Stevie had ever heard it, including when they first met on the pitch at Melwood. “I’ll drive you back.”

Stevie poured the rest of the beer out, watching the parched ground easily soak up the liquid. “Sure,” he said.

***

“Did you enjoy your paella?” Xabi asked, as he swiped open the hotel door with its key card. He’d been in enough hotel rooms all over the world to appreciate that this was one of the better ones. Minimalist touches, everything with smooth lines, pale tints of tiffany blues and creams, with oil paintings of parts of the capital made it less impersonal and more of a private home. As much as Stevie would have been half expecting something like a bed and breakfast near to the airport where he could grab something from a local shop to eat, and freshen up for the next flight home, Xabi figured that he owed him this much for coming out on his rest day.

“S’all right. Not exactly central spanish food, is it?” A thump as Stevie dropped his overnight bag at his foot, the sound of a heavy thunk as something shouldn’t have been dropped. Xabi turned around at this, only to see Stevie leaning against the door, his stare frank and on him. 

“When the English think of Spanish cuisine,” Xabi drawled, flicking the hotel card between his fingers like a magician with a card. “They think of paella. I hate to disappoint. But knowing you, you’d call that lying too.” 

“Oh, here we go.”

Xabi slipped the key card into his pocket. The tension between them charged ever since Stevie made that comment outside of Madrid. They’d driven back, the silence as menacing as sharp upturned spikes to the ankle. Swirling and spinning around them as Stevie refused to be drawn on anything else, even the Mario Balotelli signing that caught the sports world on the hoof, and Brendan Rogers being coy with details. Xabi’s thoughts still snagging on the words said back there, on the ledge overlooking the city. Both had eaten a late lunch in the hotel downstairs, protein and carbs, more function than enjoyment, because at their level, their bodies demanded fuel. 

“What you said back there, you _fuck_ -” and yeah, the English swear word got Stevie’s attention, as Xabi hoped it would. Stevie's head jerked up in Xabi’s direction. His eyes flashing, and in the _present_ at him, his jaw firm. “You have no idea how much I loved Anfield, I loved Liverpool. Bleed red, no? Never walk alone, yes? But because I left-”

“You left _me_!” Stevie’s voice exploded, emotion pushing him from the door, him barrelling into the middle of the room, getting into Xabi’s face, the savoury scent of their meal on his breath. “When you left us, it was a body blow, you knew it. We know it, but that’s fine, you were going to Real, for family, and la di dah. It worked out for you, didn’t it? With your Copa del Reys and Champions League and sodding decimás, you wreathed in fuckin’ glory. And every time I think, I can get over it, I’m _fine_. I’m sound, yeah, you come back and rip the fucking sutures open and it hurts again. You are the _fuck_.”

Xabi pushed at Stevie. A sharp shove with the flat of his palm, a slap against his chest. Stevie shoved back. For an instant, Xabi might have been on the field again in the English Premier League: his heart racing at a clip, bracing against an opponent pressing against him with too much intent, underscoring it with something off colour. Xabi learnt that much from his time in the English game, intimidate, never shy away, get physical.

“Then why are you here?” Xabi tapped him on the chin with an open palm, like one would someone his junior. 

“I dunno,” Stevie raised his forearm, blocking Xabi’s second attempt at a tap, his face flushing with annoyance. “I like to see close up what an entitled cunt looks like from time to time.”

Xabi grabbed at Stevie’s shirt with both hands, his fingers folded in the lapels of the polo. Their faces a breath away from each other, close enough for Xabi to see the change in Stevie’s eyes, the room suddenly too close, and Xabi’s blood still pumping hot, but not by anger. Stevie reached out, grabbed the nape of his neck with one hand, as if dragging him into an awkward team huddle. Xabi reciprocated, one hand from the collar, on to Stevie’s waist. 

“Xabi-”

Xabi shook his head, before he placed his hands to the side of Stevie’s face. Following instinct, he pressed lips and teeth along the line of Stevie’s jaw, half dragging him to the floor. Crawling on and over him as a matter of imperative, Steven Gerrard hard indeed. Stevie angled his face, a shift. Their teeth jounced, their lips dragged, and when the seam of Stevie’s lips finally- _finally_ opened under Xabi’s with a choked moan, his mouth hot and eager (always eager) Xabi's mind short circuited. Wild with lust, Xabi’s hands slid under Stevie’s shirt, _tell me no_ , he wanted to say. _Or yes_. Yet when Stevie uttered his name, thickly voiced and with urgency, nothing else mattered in the moment but giving him reasons to say it like that again. He'd forgotten what it felt like, him and Stevie like this-

This was better, Xabi thought, as sensation ebbed a bit, his fingers tightening on the vee of Stevie's hip. They could share this, because it hurt less. Then Stevie slid his fingers along the waistband of his jeans, his teeth and tongue dragging against the pulse of Xabi's throat. The heat and weight of Stevie's hand on him, the scorch of his mouth along the line of his jaw, sensations twisting his mind into a white haze. For the first time since Stevie's plane landed, Xabi stopped thinking.

***

Reasoning came back in waves as his blood and flesh cooled. It had been, Xabi decided, not the best way to go about things. They’d made it to the bed, at least. Clothes half torn and tossed around this boutique room like - a storm in a teapot? Was that the English saying? He made to turn and ask Stevie, lying beside him, hands across his chest, eyes to the ceiling. Stevie’s body hadn’t changed much, still a shade heavier than his own, thicker in chest, waist and thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Xabi said at last. “If -” he thought, shifting through the words carefully, half frustrated at how hard and unromantic sentiment could be in English. “If our - if us being friends makes you hurt, I’ll stop.”

Stevie dropped his stare from the ceiling, and turned his head to face Xabi. “Friendship doesn’t work that way,” with a sigh, he got up. “I need to get ready, my check out’s in three hours, right?”

“It’s summer in Madrid, the city’s deserted at this time, traffic is... light. You can get away with ninety minutes.”

“Okay.”

They cleaned up separately, quietly. 

Not saying a thing to each other until Stevie slipped his feet into his sneakers, tied the laces. Xabi sat beside him on the low slung sofa that faced the rucked up bed and their activities there. A kind of abstract print in the corner that drew the eye and made the room interesting. 

“I always thought I left Liverpool before I was ready. It’s something I think about. Always at first, and then _de nuevo y de nuevo_? Again and again?” At Stevie’s nod, Xabi continued. “It’s- like- your first love, yes? You meet someone who makes you want them enough to not fear the risk. You move out of your parents’ house, into your first - flat. You love, you soak up life, each other, and then it ends. You wonder how it happened, and wonder if you’ll ever feel like that again.”

“But you would have left, anyway.”

Nothing to say but the truth. “Yes.”

Stevie nodded, eyes still facing ahead. “I know you would’ve.”

“But I- I got over it. It took time but- how can you say no to Real Madrid? It’s a mark of honour to be chosen, to be thought to _worthy_ of the discipline and respect that the shirt gives. The titles and honours that she demands. You have to kiss the badge, because you’re in service to it. _Hala Madrid_."

“Xabi-”

“Please, wait. You said your piece out there.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Stevie looked at him now, the craggy lines in his face softened by the slow fade of sunlight outside. They hadn’t turned the lights on in the room, instead of placing the card in the slot, to illuminate the room, it was still in Xabi’s pocket. 

“You did. I mean, you didn’t mean to hurt- but you meant what you said. I love Liverpool, and am glad it’s coming back to where it should be, and am glad that you’re still there. Although I wish you’d have come over here and we might have played together again. You had _options_ , you know," Xabi said, voice gentle with reason. "Even now, you do.”

“I couldn’t leave.”

“And I couldn’t stay,” Xabi admitted. “That business with Benitez and Gareth Barry aside-”

“ _Just do what needs to be done, this is not happiness, but greatness_.” Stevie cut in. Xabi frowned, half wondering if Stevie had insulted him, but waited, because Stevie always explained himself in the end even if it took some time to get there. “I remember coming across that quote one day, sometime after you’d left. I think I hated you at the time for going and hated myself for staying. There were other clubs that- but I was committed- still am- and I needed to stay. Am happy, despite everything- or lack of everything,” and Stevie laughed at this, his eyes crinkling, the self deprecating shrug Xabi knew well. 

Stevie would be a dervish on the field, shepherding and dragging everyone else to a result on by sheer force of will, and heart, but off the field, he seemed a bit smaller, less Captain Fantastic, and more a _tipo_ from a local football team you might have heard about. “But you wanted to be great, Xabi, and you have been. And I’m proud of you for doing that. For not shying away from it, and I got over my feelings about it, because you deserve all the glory. But I’m allowed to sigh about what could have been can’t I? Without you tensing and thinking that I’m trying to run a guilt trip in the press, because I’m not. I can be proud of you and pissed at you at the same time yeah? I can’t wear your strips because that’s a bit wet, and I’m not a teenage girl. I can’t do it - but- Lourdes can, right?”

Xabi dipped his head, closing his eyes against the prickle of tears. His elbows now on his knees, his index finger against his lips. He took a moment to regain his composure, to make sure his voice stayed steady. Just like that, Stevie made them right again. Captain Fantastic.

“If I could have shared my honours with you, I would.”

“That’s a glorious lie,” Stevie howled with laughter, and Xabi joined in. The relief and bond of a shared laugh as their shoulders touched each other, their heads against the sofa, almost brushing against each other as the day’s tricks had now caught up with them. “No, you wouldn’t, you tosser. We shared a couple big ones in the field together,” Stevie said, sobering up, his eyes now closed as if exhausted. His body still rippling with the after shocks of gut busting laughter, near enough for Xabi to feel the shift of limbs. “That’s enough to be going on with, I think. The best ones are the ones you win by your own hand. I still miss you, am proud to have known you, and will always wish that you’d come back, even though I know that won’t happen... Pass master.”

“Thank you for coming,” Xabi briefly jounced his shoulder against Stevie’s. “You made my decision clear.”

“Xabi, lad,” Stevie shook his head, and Xabi smirked, half caught in the lie, knowing that when it came to Stevie, it was pointless to hide. “Bayern Munich’s team is chockablock with the best players in the world right now, and Guardiola came a calling for _you_ especially. It’s that greatness over happiness thing again. Your decision was clear as the day you said yes to him- probably the same day he personally spoke to you.”

“I can be both, I can do both,” Xabi pressed his thigh against Stevie’s, the touch making Stevie’s eyes flutter open. In the softening light of the room, they shared a look. After a long stare, Stevie tabled his verdict. “If anyone can, you could.”

“I had both with you, once.”

This time, Stevie became silent, as he broke their stare and looked away. After a full minute of nothing but the smooth hum of the a/c humming in the back ground, Stevie cleared his throat, saying with great care, “I think we need to go.”

***

They got to the airport in good time. Xabi had been right, even though they were at the tail end of August, the city was still deserted with people on their holidays. The streets clear of cars, and the only people on the roads, with too rosy skin, were the English and Germans - if the football strips and Adidas World Cup tops with the white and black stripe were anything to go by. Most of the check ins were clear, illuminated squares of light with various logos of companies. The grid of arrivals streaming across display boards showing flights landing, departing, their countries and times in twenty four hour clocks. Lime green font against a black backdrop. The distant wails of a child started, and then stopped. Stevie checked in without incident, and all they had to do was stand and wait. Or at Xabi’s insistence, sit and wait, the airport all but cleared out at this time of the evening, with their feet propped on Stevie’s inflight bag.

“This isn’t a trophy, I can’t believe you’re doing the propping foot thing. It’s not la decimá, or a stadium-”

“Ssssh, Stevie, you’re ruining the shot. Tip your feet this way- ah, _¡Hijo de puta!_ You ruined it.”

“You twat!” Stevie huffed, scandalised. “I did not.”

“Again, it has to be perfect this time.”

“So you can put it on your fake Instagram? Or will it just be lost in the gallery of your i-phone?”

“I’ll send it to you, too. Satisfied?”

The shutter clicked, framing both their feet in the photo. Xabi’s jean clad legs with trendy moccasins, Stevie’s sponsored trainers in the day glo colours the company insisted on their athletes wearing. Legs crossed at the ankles, feet tucked towards each other. Satisfied, Xabi slipped his phone in the pocket of his jeans. They still had time, according to the clocks, and selfishly, Stevie wished they’d had more. Slowly, he got up, grabbing the handles of his inflight bag, as they made their way just in front of the departures lounge, the personnel further down, signs directing people to place their belongings in the plastic tubs and have their passports to hand.

“It was nice seeing you,” Stevie said finally, because Xabi knew, Stevie had no shame in saying what he meant. “I'll follow your matches at Bayern, so you need to text me the date of your first game.”

“You’ll visit when things are settled, yes?”

“If I can.”

“I hope you can.”

“Probably,” Stevie said, and Xabi nodded, because it had to be enough. 

“Well, _adios_ ,” Xabi said brightly, arms outstretched for a hug. As if they were on the pitch in the Kop, after completing a bit of magic with feints, passes and assists, and the fans throwing yells and screams of adulation their way, they coasting on a bubble of triumph. Xabi’s heart beating strong and hard through his chest, the stink of grass and sweat and synthetic a memory away. Alonso said goodbye Spanish style, a kiss on each cheek, his beard a pleasant scratch against skin. Stevie closed his eyes briefly, before he pulled away. 

Xabi stood there, as Stevie hitched his bag on his shoulder, neither of them moving from their spot. 

“You should sleep on the plane.”

“I will, Mum,” as if each of them weren’t seasoned travellers in their own right. “I - good luck with everything eh? Even if you don’t need it.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Bye, Xabi.” Stevie gave a mock salute, and Xabi grinned, because again, Stevie made it so easy. He opened his mouth to say something, before the tannoy exploded with announcements of flight boarding and gate details in both Spanish and English. 

“You can go to your gate now.”

“All right,” Stevie moved off, only for Xabi to raise his hand and say, “Keep asking me, yes?”

“To come back to Anfield?” Stevie rolled his eyes, sounding more like the harried dad and coach of a Sunday kick about on a pitch than what he was. “Give over, you’ll never come back to the EPL, much less Anfield.”

“No,” Xabi agreed, “but just--- you’re allowed to sigh at what we could have been, no? And wear strips that aren’t yours.” Stevie's face brightened as he recognised his own words, and Xabi smiled, both knowing that it had been the right thing to say. 

“Good Bye Xabi, and good luck.” Stevie said, and he meant it this time. 

“Stevie, wait.”

Two steps towards each other, and another hug, sharp and brief. But Xabi held on a little tighter this time, feeling Stevie’s solid bulk against him, his breath in his ear. His smell - still him, even under freshly applied soap and cologne, especially in the junction between shoulder and ear. Xabi wanted to say, _You were wrong, about me not being able to love people with ease. I loved Liverpool, every bit of it. I love you, and you both made it easy. This is why_. 

FIN


End file.
